1. Stand up.
Wander around. Move your
feet. For me, it gets the blood moving,
gets a little bit of a beat. You find
the highs and lows of the poem, where the energy hits certain beats. I’m a fidgety person, and I like to use that
habit in learning by getting moving.

2. Break down the poem into sections. This helps if you have verses, or a repeated
line. Find the checkpoints, where you
need to get to, where you’ve come from.

3. Keep having a go at it without the page. Don’t glue yourself to it. If you’re getting it wrong, check rather than
constantly stare at the infuriating page.

4. Intense bursts. Go over and over it, but then take a good
breather. Let it sink in, let it cement.Go make some food, read a book/magazine.Have a dance.Write a blogpost.

Thursday, 27 July 2017

Saturday we all rocked up to Deer Shed Festival, my 3rd
time at the family-friendly festival. Actually,
‘family-friendly’ doesn’t do it justice.
Unlike other festivals, who have little separate areas for the kids
while the parents can go off and watch the other acts, Deer Shed totally
embracing children. Thousands of them. After a few hours you’re almost dizzy with
the constant chattering, running and joy from the children and young
people. You can hear me chat to Megan,
Creative Director of the Festival on the Say Owt podcast: https://soundcloud.com/sayowtpodcast/say-owt-podcast-19-megan-evans/sets

I say we, because it was the first time we’d gone as Say
Owt, and a crew. Myself, Dave Jarman,
Chris Singleton, Stu Freestone, Jenni Pascoe and Ralph Dartford spent the day soaking up the
atmosphere of the mighty festival, watching some acts, bands, even chatting to
some of the attendees and writing some brand new poems especially for the
event. We then pitted ourselves in a
slam, with some help from special guest Dom Berry. As expected with a spot of new poems, an audience
mostly comprised of under 10s and a little bit of improvised freestyling there
was a ramshackle element. I’d like to
think we did a good fun hour of entertainment among many other acts and
artists, if there was a wild chaotic element running throughout.

I didn’t want to just take a simple slam where we bring poems specifically for children. I did
one of my ‘normal’ poems for adults, as did Stu freestone and Ralph
Dartford. The show before us did pretty
simple poetry, aimed directly at children.
Clearly the kids enjoyed it, but I think we did the stronger show. Not that it’s a competition (although we did run a slam competition) but rather than considering the ‘expectations’ around
performing to young people, we just went for an entertaining showcase which I
think paid off. Thanks to Deer Shed and
my fellow poets, hope we can return next year for more madcappery!

On Friday I drove o’er the Pennies to deepest darkest Lancashire
to take part in Reclaim The Power’s Rolling Resistance against Fracking in
Flyedale. As expected, the event was a
mixture of demonstration, blockade and mad party. When we arrived Pete The Temp was DJing a
mixture of dub, hip-hop and folk, tasting over the top and getting everyone
boogieing with the power of a loop pedal.
His cheeky moment between pieces, joyous energy and clever construction
meant everyone was having a great time.

The best moment was when one of the dancing Nannas behind me
proclaimed: “Eeee I’ll sleep tonight!”

I did a few poems, and other people joined in with their
poems and speeches. We learnt about the
other activities that week, as well as the wider issues around farming. Food was served to the few hundred people in attendance,
all free. Under the steely gaze of
Police, people of all ages chatted together, some clear crusties from the environmental
movement, others local farmers, others concerned older people. A local woman spoke to the crowd with tears
in her eyes how appreciative she was for people being there. We’d come from Yorkshire, but others had
travelled from Nottingham and Bristol for the actions.

I can’t speak much for the activism side, I’ve never
performed a lock-on or other forms of direct action. But the event was a reminder amongst the
anger and actions, it’s always useful to have some poetry or music to stir
everyone’s spirits. When the trucks
begin rolling into Kirby Misperton in September here in North Yorkshire, I hope
the abundance of poets and musicians in York and the surrounding cities will
come and get involved, it’s a bright, colourful wing to a beautiful movement.

Sunday, 16 July 2017

When I was 17-18 I started going to more events in York,
after discovering the wonders of John Cooper Clarke and performance poetry. I went to a few open mics, and I recall
ending up at a night of poetry at York Library (now York Explore). I was trying to find my voice in a literary
scene perhaps older, more mature and maybe not quite right for a gobby punk
like myself.

At the night, I met and chatted to Helen Cadbury. I can’t
remember if Helen performed, but I remember talking to her, and Helen being
very friendly to this inexperienced young poet.
Over the years Helen was always a sociable face who you’d bump into at
events, around York Theatre Royal or have good discussions with over social
media forums.

Helen sadly passed away last month, and yesterday I
attended her memorial at the Quaker Meeting House. Helen was a writer, drama facilitator, poet
and educator. Other people who knew
Helen better than I have articulated
her life and character.

I just wanted to write a blog about how I saw her as part
of an artistic scene. At her Memorial I thought
about that first encounter. A lot of
people spoke about Helen’s nurturing side and her support for the
community. But Helen was also a socialist
and a pretty fiery person (not to mention someone with a wicked naughty sense
of humour).

I was thinking about now, as someone nearing their 29th
birthday and planning a series of new spoken word events under the Say Owt
banner, people’s role in the scene and community.

York is a very unique city. Lots of scenes and communities intersect. Helen’s memorial was attended by theatre, literature,
poetry, Leftie and, of course, Quaker people.
I feel like I dip in-and-out of numerous scenes in York, poetry, comedy,
theatre, activism and music to name but a few, and the sub-categories each one boasts.

I think it’s important to be encouraging and nurturing in
all scenes. To give people support,
mentorship and advice, wherever constructive criticism or much-needed
praise. To point them in the right
directions, to pass them onto other nights and events. I’d like to do this in the spirit of Helen,
not patronising, not intensive. But just
being that friendly face you bump into around this city.

Wednesday, 5 July 2017

If you’re
anything or anybody like me, you live in the Land of Should. I should do this, I should do that. It’s the burden of a guilty expectation. It’s taken me a long time to unlearn what I
should be doing on a career-scale. “I
should be earning xyz, playing these festivals and getting those kind of gigs”
etc. I still live in the Land of Should
on a personal level, but having a set of expectations doesn’t help give you a structure
for ambition.

One of these
goals in life was that artists should have Grants for the Arts. The route to being a successful artist is a
pot of money from the Powers That Be that seemingly validates you as a
professional. The trouble was, the
vastness of the G4A was a scary prospect.
Too scary to get my head around.
How to approach it, how to digest it, how to find support for it? Not because it seemed a very unpunk thing,
but because I liked immediacy. And I
guess I shy away from hard work sometimes if I’m not naturally already pretty
good at it. Thanks for friends who told
me to just get on with it.

But, with
huge support from Kirsten Luckins over at Apples & Snakes, and advice from
a number of other amazing people, the event I co-run, SAY OWT, has received a
Grant For The Arts from Arts Council England.
It felt a lot of emailing, timetabling, rewriting and messages
flying-back-and-forth. A lot of maybes. This actually felt a lot more could than
should. We could do these events is a lot better ‘bluesky’ thinking than we
should do these events. It’s more
ambitious to think could than should.

The
programme we’ve put together is not just a dedication to the exciting and raw
slams we’ve fostered, but also open mics featuring crossover events with other
nights across the UK, workshops, special events and scratches, plus
opportunities for poets to be our Local Guest and part of an Anthology.

This massively
exciting for me and Stu to start juggling these new responsibilities, but I
guess it’s understanding this doesn’t mean we’ve ‘made it’ and suddenly are
grown-ups with our G4A. If anything, it’s
more complicated! We’ve run 3 seasons of
Say Owt, and yes we’ve cemented a night but it’s time to push onwards and
really define what it could be; a supportive, quality and experimental
scene. And not what it should be.

Friday, 30 June 2017

Everything
Is Possible has been York’s 2017
Big Community Show, a now traditional feat where the people of York come
together under the banner of York Theatre Royal and Pilot Theatre to produce a
large-scale production. It’s hugely
impressive, not just for the size of the project, but the dedication poured
into every costume, prop, scene and line.

Everything Is Possible is the story of the Suffragette movement, and
although from a York perspective, it’s not afraid to draw stories from Leeds
and London to explore the militant side of the movement. The show is very funny, very important and always makes me very weepy. Massive respect to the creatives, cast and crew.

Stories are important, and
of course theatre is the industry of stories.
Whilst the fight for the vote was a centralised idea around the
movement, it was not just about being allowed to tick a box. The vote
represented validation within the political spectrum, to be able to engage with
politics. The show admirably talks about
the sheer poverty of women in Britain at the turn of the century, the sheer
lack of both worker’s and human rights and the fight for them, not just the base
desire to tick boxes in a polling booth.

I have been given the very
privileged position to programme a series of ‘buskers’ for the opening protest
outside the Minster before the show begins, which takes the form of a modern
day Women’s March akin to those that boldly defied Trump and the patriarchy
across the globe earlier this year. I'm really grateful for this opportunity to be part of it, and I know the poets and musicians who have given their time and resources to perform have been super excited by a wing of this mighty production.

As someone known for ‘protesty
stuff’ I can’t deny there are problematic elements to staging a protest, taking
the perfromative elements of a movement and making them into the show’s
prologue. Though the cast are chanting
slogans, and holding banners, and talking to the audience about social issues,
the piece is non-partisan in order to be accessible to the public, and also
appease the varying degrees of politics within the cast.

All stories have an
agenda. The make sure children don’t
stray off the path and talk to wolf-like strangers, or go knocking on
Gingerbread Houses, or it’s OK to kill giants.
Or one day your Prince will come (ugh!). However even, for example, the Sisters Uncut
chant of “back up back up we want freedom freedom / Sexist racist cuts we don’t
need ‘em need ‘em” suggests an anti-austerity agenda, at odds with the Tory
voters of the cast and public. And for
the inclusive community aspect of the production, a compromise is required.

With this in mind, it’s
been amazing to see some ‘realness’ in the form of buskers I have asked to perform
who, without being overly partisan, are able to talk about social issues which
the ‘script’ of the play would not necessarily allow, and possibly get the
charity of YTR into hot water. The
buskers, as outsiders, have a level of rebelliousness that adds an extra spice
to the production.

I think this show has reminded
me of the privilege as a freelance artist to navigate politics. Both on my personal
page, and the Say Owt page,
we promoted the Labour Party because their Arts policies (among many) were more
beneficial to us and our audiences.

It is fine for me as an individual
artist to upset Conservative voters and criticise their Austerity agenda, as
well as other social issues because my agenda is solely my own. A production like Everything Is Possible as a massive amount of staff, volunteers and
associates with all manner of ideas and politics and must acknowledge

But in actuality, this is
the background to all movements. As the
show presents, some Suffragettes were all for violence and militancy, willing
to break the laws. Others still happy to
respectably petition. One thing that the
show didn’t quite touch upon (though I do appreciate it can’t cover every
single aspect of the massive movement within a 90 minute running time!) was the
resistance
to the First World War from the Suffragette movement, and how it split into
ant-war activists
and pacifists (generally from a Socialist and Quaker perspective) and the women
prepared to fly the patriotic flag.

But I am proud that the
buskers I programmed, and myself as a busker too, were able to add into the mix
these other ideas, opinions, poems and songs.
Some women smashed windows, some women sold papers, some made tea at
meetings. Some people chain themselves
to fracking drills, some people film it for legal purposes, and some people
make the tea too.

Systems aren’t made of
bricks they’re made of people, and the same goes for a movement. A movement needs diversity, as much as there’s
the respectable
Parliamentary approach to change that some politicians present, we also need
the spikier side to protest. As I
talked about in a blog from a while ago, keep agitating, keep debating, use
your platform as a host, performer, theatre-maker, musician, poet, comedian,
manager, audience member, space-owner etc to talk about anger and hope and love
and rage. And solidarity.

Deeds Not Words

Unfuck the world

If you want to know more
about militant women’s fights across the world:

Tuesday, 27 June 2017

There have always been (and will always be) little
boys and little girls who question the workings of the world, raging against
the sweet ration and battle against the injustice of bedtime.

In 1869 a girl was born into the Russian Empire’s
poverty. Despite the threat of pogroms,
school books burnt, brutality and beatings, Emma still spoke back.

Arriving in New York, Emma discovered the
mechanisation of modern life in the American system, where the wage slavery of
the day isn’t a parent’s helping hand, it’s a master’s balled fist.

Emma became an Anarchist, realising all men and
women are property in the eyes of the capitalist state, patriotism assumes the
world is divided by iron gates, religion trains slaves and marriage makes
slaves.

Emma’s sentences were dipped deep in gasoline. Hearing her speak of revolution was a
revelation, if your ears were a nation your ear drum would be banging the beat
for freedom.

She cooked her speeches and writing with the insight
of Emerson, Ibsen and Wilde, and when she spoke it was with the celebration of
being alive. Emma spoke out.

Now, Emma was no proto-hippie, she was a celebrity
of anarchy, the papers named her Red Emma: the most dangerous woman in
America. She was arrested for her part
in an assassination attempt and argued the need for propaganda of the
deed. It is capitalism which forces men
and women to be violent against authority’s lies, but terror must never be
institutionalised.

Emma, speaking for free love, sex worker rights,
better birth control and homosexual liberty at the turn of the century. “Man can conquer nations, but his armies
cannot conquer love” she wrote because love is a hope that topples the king
from his throne.

Emma travelled to Soviet Russia and was
disillusioned with the Bolshevik state responsible for the annihilation of the
most fundamental values, human and revolutionary.Others argued the end justifies the means,
but in her eyes terror must never be insitutionalised.

“If I cannot dance to it, it’s not my revolution”
Her famous quote came from being told her frivolous dancing will only hurt the
Cause. If anyone tells you this, don’t
pause, just keep dancing or singing or riding the fairground rides.

Every tiny act of expression in life forms a
join-the-dots worldwide constellation of rebellion, linked like the arms that
lock tight outside NATO summits.

So why remember Red Emma? Like a Punk Rock Pussy Riot Party, let’s look
beyond equal pay to a day when price tag society no longer makes us property,
there is no binding packaging to love and no hierarchies to label us. The only
competitive culture I want, is a dancing competition.

What else are we fighting for, if not the freedom to
dance until the sun is dawning without the fear of landlord’s calling or the
harsh grasp of work the next morning?

Tuesday, 20 June 2017

I went to see the National
Theatre of Scotland’s tour of The Wonderful
World of Dissocia at York Theatre Royal in 2007. I remember for three clear-as-day
reasons: 1. It was the year I went to
University, and the period of a handful of years I saw numerous plays that
would inform how I looked at, and loved, theatre. 2. I
have the ticket in the play script I bought (signed by Antony Neilson, the
author) and 3. I was 18 and we got drunk.

You see, we’d all gone to
see the play as a Youth Theatre trip. We
were all the top-tier of the group, some of us had gone off to University, YT
was a great place to catch up, do something silly in-between doing silly things
at BBQs and festivals and parties. For
some reason, YTR had a drinks offer which, if memory serves (though unlikely it
does) pints were £1. We loved the show,
so we went back and saw it again for one of the gang’s birthday. With £1 pints. But we left at the intervanl. I’ll explain.

The Wonderful World of Dissocia is a parody of Alice
In Wonderland, with a spot of Wizard of Oz thrown in. The kind of thing that people like Neil
Gaiman riff on all the time. Lisa goes
into a magical world to try and retrieve her lost hour, and in the process
meets all manner of strange characters whose existence plays-on-words. The Oathtaker becomes the Oat-Cake-Eater, The
Scapegoat, whose job is to take the blame, the residents of the Lost Lost
Property who have lost their sense of humour, temper and inhibitions. The story revolves around the evil Black Dog
trying to destroy/rule Dissocia, and the resolution being Lisa turns out to be
the source of life in Dissocia. However,
Neilson’s Dissocia is a twisted Wonderland, the text peppered with swearing, a
slab of nudity as well as a sexual assault.
It has a childish quality, like a naughty child was re-writing Peter Pan
by replacing the word ‘Pirate’ with the word ‘Knob’ and the show was genuinely
hilarious, as well as unsettlingly dark in places. So we went to see if twice, because we
laughed so much.

But the second half is
hard to watch. Roughly 20 minutes, it
sees the entire world transformed into a Hospital ward, and numerous Nurses and
Doctors come and treat Lisa. But the energy
is flat. The scene bitingly realistic,
tender and the complete opposite of the nutty 1st half. It’s because the world of Dissocia is inside
Lisa’ head, roughly reflective of a hallucinogenic adventure in the countryside,
seeing a goat, an airport, a hot dog van but filtering it into a manic world. The Black Dog King is both the black dog of
depression, and her boyfriend, Vince, who makes her feel guilty of her lapses
into another world in her head.

The show stayed with me,
because of the context of seeing the show with good mates and the laughs. But also because the play is brave enough to bore the audience in the second half, a
comment on mental health services. Two
extremes, two different experiences, two worlds all within one stage. In the Foreword to the text, Neilson talks
about “the greatest oppositional forces facing normal people come from within…”

Finally, Neilson says “We
must be magical or suffer the consequences”.
He wants spectacle, and the ability to make an audience laugh is a
powerful, and addictive, tool. I guess
that’s stayed with me, not only I want my events and work to be the good night out full
of entertaining fun energy, but also that within there are opposites: seriousness, politics, drama, tension, silence
and commentary.

Monday, 12 June 2017

Clickbait title, obvs.
I love Jezza. But I now feel like
we need to make the debate about the many, the ‘us’, not just for this Election
but the future of a supportive society.

If you checked out my other Blog, you’ll know I have a shaky
history with the Labour Party.

But I’m still buzzing from Thursday night.

If you caught me sometime in the last week, on a gloomy
day I’d had said even if May increases her majority by a tiny amount, she’s
lost. Because she called this whole faff
to prove she was right, and anything but a landslide looks like failure. On a gloomier day, I’d have said we’re
looking at a Tory Landslide.

At the start of the campaigning I said I wasn’t going to
put a Vote Labour sign in the window (only anti-Tory sentiments). On Friday, I joined the Labour Party, one of
150,000 bringing the number up to 800,000, the biggest political membership in
Europe.

Highlights from this election have been an emotional
rollercoaster. Corbyn’s speech in York
in May was inspiring, a roaring and fiery man far from the wet lettuce the
media portrayed him as. We grabbed the
cut-out Dalek that lives in our house (left by housemates long gone), slapped a
printed-off image of May’s face upon its head and presented #DalekMay to the
world. Dozens of people stopped to get
photos with her.

Next stop was Halifax, a town on the knife-edge of
Tory/Labour marginals. Outside the
launch of the Manifesto we, and a plucky small band of protestors, chanted
alongside Dalek May. If anything, just
to irritate them inside. Against the gigantic
brickwork of a converted old mill building, we seemed very small at this stage
in the campaign trial. David and
Goliath-eque some might say. That could
bode well.

We tracked the Real May to York University, and in the
drizzling rain, with a tune 2nd in the pop charts being our
soundtrack, we popped away whilst inside May refused to debate, and white men
refused to not kill millions.

But, for all, this, hopes felt low. Even as we sat down to watch the results slide
onto infographics on the BBC, we worried even the stronghold of York Central
could go Blue.

As it stands, it was a cracking night. Backed by booze, good jokes, good friends and
result-after-result where Labour grabbed Tory seats and baddies like Rudd
seated over 300 seats. It felt, for the
first time since those early demos against fees in 2010, like I was part of
something. It felt like finally winning,
something the left hasn’t had for a long, long time.

But this: This was the highlight. I love my friends:

So I joined Labour the next day, because I want to keep
that momentum. But also because I
watched an excellent video from Akala,
but disagreed with a few points. Akala
said he wasn’t voting for the Labour Party, he was voting for Corbyn. He wasn’t alone, but Corbyn has always placed
faith in the Party, not the personalities.
He wants to create a movement, not a cult of personality. I’ve met really committed activists, trade
unionists and agitators these last few weeks canvassing, the real heart of the
party.

The Blairities might still be around, eating their humble
pies, but that’s why I’ve joined to pressure them to keep the socialist ideals
in the manifesto, and keep them in line.
And finally, Akala said he didn’t even know the name of the person
standing in his constituency, but Rachael Maskell in York Central has been
tirelessly fighting for the NHS and refugee rights. More women and disabled
people people from ethnic minority groups have become MPs than ever before. Even a MP of Palestinian decent was elected (admittedly
for the Liberal Democrats).

If Anarchism has taught me anything, it’s to kill your
idols, or at the last not put them on pedestals. I love Jezza, but he’s far from perfect. He’s also not young, and although we have
plenty more years out of him yet, we need to look at the Party being a social movement
dictated by the working class, by women, by minorities for the benefit of all
society. So I’m joined to shift away
from the central aspect of Jezza and onto the Party as an 800,000-strong group
with 40% of the country voting for it.

But I’ll still sing VOTE FOR JEREMY CORBYN to the tune of
Seven Nation Army. Obvs.

Tuesday, 6 June 2017

The Shy Tories peeked their heads out of the Polling Booth.In the echoy community centre, like blue meerkats, they checked no one was watching.That afternoon they kicked a homeless man, but they didn't make eye contact whilst they did so.The Shy Tories marched into the school, and stole the children's meals.Peas and carrots cascaded across the floor, as the children clutched their spectre-thin stomachs.But the Shy Tories had needed take a deep breath beforehand, to steady their nerves.The Shy Tories jeered at a woman in a wheelchair, quoting invented facts.But it was a woman they already knew, because the Shy Tories found it difficult to meet new people.The Shy Tories ended their evening by Privatising the NHS.Shy Tories find it uncomfortable to leave the house, so sold it off from the security of their own mansions."Are you coming out to be Strong & Stable?" guffawed the Proper Tories, who strode along the streets with great big steel scissors used for cutting up the public sector."No" the Shy Tories muttered before having a little cry, for their scissors were very small.The Shy Tories peeked their heads out of the Polling BoothAnd condemned both the old and the youth.

I grew up in a Labour household. Voting Labout was part of the scenery, the
day-to-day life, you vote Labour. There
was no conflict, debate or uncertainty.
You vote Labour.

I was 9 when Tony Blair’s Labour landslide unseated a
generation of Tory rule, and I can vaguely remember it, a whiff of positivity
in the house, but nothing more than a ‘good thing’ has occurred. I genuinely think 9 year-olds are much more
clued-up in 2017.

In 2001 I remember there was a little bit of a buzz
around school, I think I proudly declared we were Labour just because that’s
what we were in our house. I couldn’t
vote in 2005, and again I feel like the whole election washed me by.

My relationship to the New Labour government had transformed
from the whiff of positivity into a casual breeze. History would prove that the Iraq War was a mistake
and the public were lied to, but under Blair and Brown’s following years in
power the moreorless satisfactory funding to the welfare state meant things
were stable.

I didn’t really follow my first General Election (May is
a busy time for 3rd year students), and I think that’s because of
the general fine-ness of New Labour. I
know that’s from a position of privilege, that it didn’t negatively harm me,
and indeed arguably the Tuition Fees helped me (though free education would
have helped me more). I hovered over
voting Lib Dems, like many of my generation, but heard at the last minute they
might go into Coalition with the Conservatives.
The who? The Conservatives. “You don’t vote for the Conservatives” had
been the mantra.

Instantly I joined movements against the Coalition, and
this period of my life felt like the most active, and reactive. Every few months the Coalition would come up
with a new sickening austerity measure, such as the Bedroom Tax or ATOS tests,
and we’d pile down to London, or outside York Council Chambers, or over to
Manchester or Leeds or I’d try and write a wobbly poem. It felt a bit of a whirlwind, constantly
whipping up anger, opposition and energy to combat the latest attacks. It felt politics
was entirely dictated by the Coalition, the Labour Party kept quiet. On demos, I chanted “When I say Tories / You
say Scum, When I say Labour / You say traitors” at their general passive under-the-breath
agreement with Tory austerity. “Build a
bonfire, but the Tories on the top, put the Lib Dems in with Labour and we’ll burn
the bloody lot.” There’s a photo I cut
out of a newspaper of Cameron, Milliband and Clegg all smiling, in suits,
together like mates. They look identical, the policies seemed the same too.

In 2015, I couldn’t vote for Labour. I felt their policies “better our cuts than
their cuts”. In hindsight, this again a privileged
position that I wasn’t being directly attacked by Tory austerity, so it was all
too easy to shrug, vote Green, and see the Lib Dems get decimated and Cameron become
the new norm. I was almost sad that Cameron
resigned. I hate May, but Cameron had
been the one I railed against for 6 years.
I wanted him kicked out.

So this year is the first time I have engaged with the
Labour Party as a canvasser, probably like many people. I’ve seen Corbyn speak in York, and followed
his speeches, interviews and debates. I went through a period of being highly grumpy with him and his lack of opposition, to being highly inspired. The manifesto is what people have been demanding for years in the fact of Tories arguing for 'no alternative'. he's a powerful speaker, a principled man and though his party is still full of Blairites and less-than-perfect MPs and ideas, it smells better than the Tory cesspit.

Over
the last 7 years I’ve been drawn towards Anarchism and the deconstruction of
the Westminster hierarchy. I know the
Labour manifesto is far from perfect, Corbyn himself still, highly problematic
and essentially we’re voting for bigger cages and longer chains in a capitalist
system. But the Tories want to see the
working class die. They want to see disabled
people die. Refugees die. Abused women die. The homeless die. They actively want that. Why else would their policies exist? They are a poisonous fog, and the electorate
are getting lost within their toxic rhetoric. Sorry Tories, you're the Bad Guys.

So I don't think my relationship with Labour has been tribal. It's changed from the nice,
normal breezy air to a pungent bitter uninvited chill. Now do I see it as a wind of change? Certainly the new Manifesto is refreshing,
everything I’d like to see to end Austerity and try and rebuild a country that
believes in its population, wants to support and educate, rather than condemn
and punish.

I’m sure, even if Corbyn becomes the Prime Minister on
June 9th, I’ll still be agitating against the state. Just this time, it’ll be a state run by a
chap who makes his own jam, so I guess there’s more room for fun chants.

Sunday, 4 June 2017

I went to the hospital because I was feeling illThen I broke my spine picking up the gigantic billI guess that’s what happens when the NHS is privatisedBut I couldn’t vote for Labour because Jeremy Corbyn doesn’t wear a tie

I went to the theatre, but there was nothing onI’d go to the museum, but there isn’t oneI’ll just stay home, watch re-runs insteadBut I couldn’t vote for Labour because Jeremy Corbyn is a Socialist Communist Marxist Red

I went to the job centre, I went to the housing marketThe only work was making sure the people get deportedI’m starting to learn we should have looked after one anotherBut I couldn’t vote for Labour because Jeremy Corbyn collects drainhole covers

I went to the school to collect my childInstead of inspired he just looked tiredConstant cuts and exams don't give him the skills he needs to knowBut I couldn’t vote for Labour because of what Jeremy Corbyn said 30 years ago

The papers said we’d go back to the 1970sBut more punk and ska quite appeals to me80% of the media is owned by 5 billionaires and the BBC are a highly paid Tory-teamBut I couldn’t vote for Labour because Jeremy Corbyn doesn’t Sing God Save The Queen

I went to the food bank because I was feeling peckishBut the person there said, sorry, just checking…Are you really starving because we have some Nurses going hungry?But I couldn’t vote for Labour because Jeremy Corbyn is a bit scruffy

I went into the Nuclear Bunker, and don’t you just love itWhen everyone’s just dying to get the Red Button and push it?And kill millions in a British Nuclear Apocalypse when the bombs are released?But I couldn’t vote for Labour because Jeremy Corbyn wanted peace

I went to the Generic Dystopian Future in order to write this poemI wanted to scaremonger but I’m not really sure where this is goingI guess, as Britain felt the stranglehold of 5 more years of austerityI probably shouldn’t have voted for Theresa May because she’s a heartless Tory.

Tuesday, 30 May 2017

Imagine my horror upon once more entering the City’s Screen
Basement, for the first time since my last encounter with the below-level venue,
after swearing I would never return after experiencing a shockingly abysmally
shocking Anti-Slam. And what did I
therein discover? Why, yet another abysmally
shocking abomination: The 2nd York Anti-Slam.

First up it seems Mr Raby and Mr Freestone’s act is that
they haven’t got their act together, starting the night in a shambles and
setting the tone firmly shambolic. Mr Freestone's choice of music reminded me of a mid-00s emo kid from Grantham, something I thought I'd never hear so long as I saw people with purple laptops.

I’m welcoming of any Nationality, especially white ones, but
can someone please send the slacker Canadian, Ford Mulligan, back home?

MC Patri-NAH-chy was a perfect example of
feminism-too-far. If you want emancipation
for women, my dear, you’re going to have to be a little less loud and a little
more accommodating of my Man Ears.

Arthur Fisher’s poetry was much more traditional, and much
more welcome. I’d happily welcome him
into my home, and happily take a meal with him and his welcome, clutching,
grasping, shaking foppish safe hands.
What a gent.

Becky must have been one of these Gender Kids I’ve heard
about, parading their nipples like this is some 1960s ‘love in’. Well I loved it not, go back to your
Tumble-ers!

Honey Brown’s performance left a lot to be desired, mainly
the desire for erotic passion. I’ve had
more sexual stirrings from the kitchen cabinet than her bland brown unboisterous
tale.

My nephew is a huge fan of Dan Galeforce, he owns CDs,
hats, t-shirts and bed sheets all with the grime Artist’s face on. I can’t see the appeal personally, give me a
good old-fashioned pop tune than this modern ‘grime’, the bane of the wide
nation.

Paul Kerr started off very wrong, but then got very right by
channelling President Trump. God bless
him, and all who sail in him.

My suspicions were raised when Rosalie Gardner’s poetry was very human. Almost too human.

Finally, I’ve known some Orcs in my time, I’m no Orc-ist,
but, like I always say, No Blacks, No Irish, No Greens. Sorry Gilbert o'Groat, you can take the Orc out of the Waaagh, but
you can’t take the Waaagh out of the Orc.

The judges were no better, Mr Dan Simpson taking up space
with his beardy privilege, a mysterious ‘Andy’ proving poetry is being overrun with
dim-witted working classness and Ms. Monica Offlebaum who’s spiritualism caused
me to spit-ualism. The scorekeeper
looked the role, if only he’d not chosen Lederhosen.

Tuesday, 16 May 2017

Last week we put on Shane Koyczan in All Saint’s
Church. It was the biggest gig as Say
owt me and Stu Freestone had ever undertaken.
We approached it with a DIY effort.
A co-production with Apples and Snakes’ Kirsten Luckins, the three of us
organised tickets, hire, seating, lighting, staging and supports
ourselves. So a massive thank you to
everyone who came to see the show, caught the supports and clapped, laughed and
cried.

The first time I visited the Church was a gig out on by
my mate Jamie as Owls Owls Owls featuring ONSIND and Spoonboy and then another
OOO gig with Chris Clavin (Ghost Mice).
I booked the Church for Buddy Wakefield, x3 times World Slam Champion. The audience were kinda small for that gig,
in 3 years the number rocketed thanks to the healthy York scene. But I didn’t really know how to acquire Pas or
lighting, Buddy just got up and did the gig.

Earlier this year, we put on Harry & Chris in the
space. Again, with very little set-up,
just 100ish people in the Church. The
main reason is we wanted to try and branch out from our usual home of The
Basement and try our hand at something under our control The Church is kind enough to let us come and
go as we please, as long as we tidy up and make sure we’re locked up. Rather than signing away our control to venue
bookers and bar staff and contracts and splits, it feels, for a single night,
ours.

There’s some problematic elements to using a Church, I’ll
admit. The fact that as an atheist, I
know some people feel uncomfortable under the roof of organised religion. The Church as a whole hasn’t got a great
record on LGBTQ+ rights. But I know this
particular Church are a far stretch from the arch-villainy of Westboro.

But I think the reason I like using the Church is the DIY
attitude of re-using space. There are
Churches across the UK which mostly sit empty, and it’s nice to reuse them to
support gigs, musicians, poets and the community. Churches were built for all manner of
reasons. Praising God an obvious one. Sanctuary (what we might now call a safe
space) being one. A place to come
together another.

The issue comes from the sanctity-ness of the space. This wasn’t a problem for Harry & Chris
and Gecko, their cheeky and silly patter and poems/songs just seemed like a
chilled house show. But Shane Koyczan’s
poetry is full of hope, joy, power and his delivery suitably impassioned. With that in mind, he was worried that maybe
the setting would be a bit ‘Holyish’. We
didn’t use a lecturn from the Church, for example. The setting of the Church adds layers. Elements of preaching, of otherwordlyness and
of a hierarchy of God, preacher and flock.
DIY is meant to reject these structures, and (as we talk about in the
latest Say Owt Podcast) I hate it when poets are put on a pedestal. Anyone can write poetry, anyone can share
it. We advertised Shane as a superstar,
and he is when you crunch numbers, but anyone can crunch hearts.

So I think using Church spaces is highly rewarding, but
there are things to consider about the connotations of the space, how audiences
perceive performers and how you break down the barriers of performer and audience
and power.

Monday, 8 May 2017

The following was delivered as a paper for Huddersfield
University’s Open Mic Symposium 6th May 2017

My housemate, Dave Jarman,
runs two open mics. Monday and Tuesday
mornings often one of the first questions I ask him is: “How was the open mic?” Responses range from quiet to busy, typical
to nuts, fucking mint to a bit shit.

York has a very specific
open mic culture. There’s one most
nights, usually more than one. Sunday
you can nip from the Fleece to the Hop to Dusk, which runs from 11pm to
late. You see the same faces, it’s a
community of people who play in each other’s bands, go to each other’s nights
and, inevitable, talk about each other behind their backs.

I’m part of the poetry and
spoken word scene, and there’s no better thrill for me to sit down and set the
scene to rights with my other poetry mates.
Did you hear that person’s new poem?
That night was ace. That night
was a bit naff. Their new book is
out. If I hear one more poem about
fucking dinosaurs…!

I think this is across the
open mic spectrum. I think inevitably
audiences, and performers, have their favourite acts from a night, despite that
not being the ethos of the evening.

Western Culture is shaped
to appreciate competition. It’s at the
centre of capitalism. Top of the film
and music charts. Top of the football
league. Top of the polls. We’ve seen it
in the Buzzfeed articles of Top 10 Clickbaits you Need To Avoid and we’ve seen
it in the binary of 1 Government, 1 Prime Minister, 1 President, 1 Referendum
Outcome coming out on top.

In a slam each poet gets a
time limit, usually 3 minutes and judges, usually chosen from the audience,
just give each poet a score, usually from 1 to 10 (with decimal points). The winner receives some form of monetary
rewards, either a paid gig, some money or a even a trophy.

As Tim Clare puts it in
his essay from the Penned In The Margin's Stress Fracture’s collection: “Analysing a slam poem’s reaction is
refreshingly binary: either it wins or
it doesn’t.”

Tim is an incredibly
energetic and playful poet, a regular at Latitude and the Edinburgh
Fringe. He’s not afraid to scream, to
writhe, to improvise, to utterly deconstruct genre to manic levels of
intensity.

“Slam exists outside the
echo chamber of academia; it’s consumers aren’t expected to recognise abstruse
Classical references or reductive, self-indulgent conversations with previous
writers.” It values the opinion of the
casual listener as much as the learned expert.
When I allocate judges, I often get this response “I don’t know anything
about poetry.” Doesn’t matter, judge
something on your terms, your experience, your perception. You can’t be wrong. Just disagreed with. This is democratising, taking power away from
the structured order of publishing and academia and into the audience in the
heat of the moment.

The best thing about a
slam, is it gives more agency to the audience.
Whether judging or not, everyone is calculating their own private
score. They can debate this afterwards amongst
themselves. You find yourself rooting
for a poet over another poet. The sports
comparison only goes so far: yes it’s a
competition but entirely subjective.
It’s not about quantifiable goals.

However, by setting up
this competitive and opinion-based structure, it encourages people to disagree
with the judges, to discuss who they thought was their favourite act, they
should have done a different poem, that wasn’t as strong, if they’d only learnt
the poem etc. At the last slam I
compered for a student society, 3 of the 4 entrants had never entered a slam
previously. I put this down to the
unusual nature of the event being attractive proposition.

Post-night, you will have
a favourite acts, because all our views are shaped to criticise and conclude.

Years ago I did a gig in
Bolton. No one was really in the
audience, it was nice but I left feeling like it didn’t serve a purpose. A chap I was playing with said “it was an answer
to a question nobody asked”. But there
is a point to the slam night. It’s to
crown a victor. I’ve heard it said: “The point isn’t the points, the point is the
poetry” but I tend to sideline this phrase, and ideology. If it’s not the point to get points, what’s
the point of the points? When you distil
a slam night down, yes it’s about fun, it’s about performance, it’s about
sharing art but we have a narrative drive from doors open to ending poem. It means we can keep the night on track,
audiences can zone in and out, but they know where the story is going. They just don’t know who the protagonist is.

In Aristotle’s Poetics, he
says: “Tragedies are not performed in order to represent character, though
character is involved for the sake of the action. The plot is the first essential part of
tragedy, its lifeblood, so to speak.”

I don’t want to go into
too much detail of the various ideas of Propp and Todorov because Narrative
theory is a wide spectrum of ideas and perceptions. But essentially Stories have rules, they have
the starting balance, breaking of equilibrium, they have climax, they have
resolution. They have structure.

Aristotle says “The
character takes second place” and in the slam, the character is merely a
component of the story (though hopefully not a tragic one). Especially with an established slam, there’s
a predictable format: Intro from host,
sacrificial poem to warm-up the crowd, first round, guest poet, second round
with top 5 scorers, crown the winner who does a finale poem.

So within this structure
we have introduction of the world, the characters, the conflict, the climax and
the resolution. And if even if the
audience know the entrant as a friend, here they are transformed as a character
within this narrative, a slammer eager to outdo their opponents.

Perhaps there is something
refreshing, even liberating, to become part of this predictable structure and
become a cog within the slam machine for the evening? You are no longer simply a human, you are a
performer, a slammer, a high scorer, a winner?

Certainly as a character,
you have your desire, and drive. Like
Richard III after the crown, Hamlet after revenge, Romeo after love: the slammer is after a high score and
victory. As play-wright Stanislavski
says: “tell me what you want, and I’ll
tell you who you are”. Play-wright Alan
Ayckbourn says: “No one crops up in a
play without a specific function.” The
function of each slammer is, at their core, to win. Sure, there are other reasons for entering,
to boost their confidence, to try new material, out of curiosity, get into the
night for free, to impress someone. But,
at its core, there is a specific, quantifiable, understandable, goal for each
character in the slam. No more “answers
to a question nobody asked” like my Bolton gig.

Obviously I’m being slightly
frivolous to imply that a slam is like a play.
But my adding this layer of a dramatic arc, everyone’s energy is
upped. They have adrenaline, they have
purpose, they have a goal. By openly
celebrating the slam as a competition, it allows the poet to embody an aim. And that, I would argue, makes everything
tantalisingly dramatic.

But are slams truly
shaking the establishment? Horkheimer
and Adorno in Dialectic of Entitlement talk about the monopoly of culture that
is a “common denomination for cataloguing and classification which bring
culture under the sphere of administration.”

Culture is controlled and
defined as something to do in relation to work.

“Amusement under late
capitalism is the prolongation of work.
It is sought after as an escape from the mechanized work process, and to
recruit strength in order to cope with it again.”

This means that culture
has no benefit beyond recharging humans go back into work, continue to slave in
the workplace, to then afford some culture at the end of the week.

“Pleasure hardens into
boredom because, if it to remain pleasure, it must not demand any effort and
therefore moves rigorously in the worn grooves of association. No independent thinking must be expected from
the audience… any logical connection calling for mental effort is painstakingly
avoided.”

Ah, but Dialectic of
Entitlement was written in 1947, a post-war world where culture was tied to the
difficult task of rebuilding a war-ravaged world. The late 50s and 60s brought counter-culture,
and slam poetry owes its legacy to Allen Ginsberg, Gil Scott-Heron and Patti
Smith. Of course slams do call for
mental effort from the audience, it actively encourages and enforces this
“independent thinking.”

Audiences at slams are not
passive. Even if they are not a scorer, the format means they can disagree with
the scores and the outcome. And if
someone thinks they could do better, they’re welcome to sign up for the next
slam.

The problem with slams is
that there is fast becoming a model for how slams work, and who wins. What kind of poems tend to win slams?

Tim Clare points out
successful slam poetry often takes one of two forms:

1. a first-person identity politics monologue
championing the position of an ostensibly marginalised voice

2. the presentation of a strawmen argument –
typically conservative – which the poet proceeds to tear apart, often
humorously.

At a slam this week, two
of the competitors said their poems weren’t particularly ‘slammy’.

Negative aspects of slams:

·The poetry that
wins has been crafted to hit certain criteria, it’s funny or political. If a slam is a competition, like any athlete,
they follow a certain mode of winning.

·It puts far too
much emphasis on celebrity, the ability to get up and get the crowd on side,
regardless of the writing quality of the poem

·It reduces the
poem into a brief 3 minute maximum format

·It creates a
who-to-book formula, the slam-winning poets apparently have a decent CV, and
poets who can’t, or don’t wish to, win slams seemingly get left to the wayside.

‘Slam Poetry Sucks’, a parody on YouTube by
Harris Alterman. In it, he takes these
forms of performance, writing and style and produces a very accurate, if a bit
nasty, satire on slams.

A comment on YouTube:

“Sums
up the entire slam poetry movement, but minus the relentless Marxist propaganda
(especially hypocritical, considering that slam poets are invariably privileged
middle class students) and interminable clichés and tendency to yell out and
overemphasise lines made of cheap political maxims. So it's actually a bit
better than the crap I've had to sit through at spoken word events.﻿”-
Iain Robb, 2016

So what am I saying?

I’d argue that all Open
mics are intrinsically competitive. The
slam format embraces this and, for better or worse, creates a vibe you don’t
find at a traditional open mic.

Is that because we live in
a competitive society?

Is that an organic space
for people to improve?

Arguably in this
capitalist society, competition forces wages and working conditions down. The end result is: profit.

What is the ‘profit’ gained
from an open mic? I guess the
recognition you entertained people.
Maybe future gigs. In a slam
there is the very definitive reward. Or
prize. Or capital. We could even see this victory as profit.

On a grassroots level, the
poetry scene means that the individual artist owns the means of production,
e.g. their own mind, mouth and ability to perform. But we’re still selling that product, the
poem, to the slam audience.

In order to prove our YouTube friend, Iain Robb
correct, I’m going to quote a little Karl Marx.
I’m a walking, talking, poetrying stereotype. In the Communist
Manifesto, Karl Marx states: “These
labourers, who must sell themselves piecemeal, are a commodity, like every
other article of commerce, and are consequently exposed to all the vicissitudes
of competition, to all the
fluctuations of the market.”

Obviously Marx is talking about economic
competition, but at the same time we cannot underappreciated the comparison
with a poet selling themselves at a slam, becoming the commodity, creating a
poem from their labour, the “fluctuations of the market” being the whim of the
audience, the type of night, the context of the week, the comparison with other
poets at the event.

Das Kapital, Marx adds “The labourer is not a
capitalist, although he brings a commodity to market, namely his own skin.”

Open mics exist as an
open space, slam’s competitive element adds a capitalist undertone of labour
for profit, or at least victory. We
poets are not the capitalists, though we produce fodder for the slam engine.

The arts can be
commodified so that the end result is owned by the corporation rather than the
individual. Comic books being a good
example. Teams of individual writers and
artists create the books, stories and characters but the result is a Marvel or
DC product. The recent wave of poets
writing poems for adverts, like Nationwide or Deliveroo or the Jeep Renegade,
are the same, the poet’s produce is not their own.

But there is a point that
slam poetry has been monopolised. Has
slam poetry become another form of commercial consumption? To quote my favourite podcast: Tab A into Slot B poetry?

Slam has hit a popular
point, wherein it can be defined, predicted and even rigged so that the
outcomes are all a palatable combination of the predictions I have mentioned
before.

I love slams, and will
continue to promote them. But I will
also continue to redefine, even undermine them.
I want to stop the competitive element turning slams into a
commodification of art, whilst at the same time seeing them rocket as an
accessible form of inspiring, agitating and divisive entertainment.

There are many ways that
we can make sure slams stay passionate and democratic and diverse. I’ll touch on these in a later blog, so your
thoughts would be highly appreciated.